


Blood Money

by gryfeathr



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dragon Age Spoilers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 05:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13991028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryfeathr/pseuds/gryfeathr
Summary: A de-anon from the Dragon Age Kink Meme.In another timeline, Hawke discovers his Uncle owes money to dangerous people -- among them a mercenary group known as the Chargers. In order to protect his family and erase the debt, Hawke and Carver join the swords for hire under the command of the mysterious The Iron Bull. But The Iron Bull didn't count on getting attached to the two brothers; Hawke didn't expect the commander to be so.............big. And qunari.Eventual Iron Bull/Hawke.





	1. Debts

**Author's Note:**

> Original Prompt can be found at https://dragonage-kink.dreamwidth.org/90046.html?thread=363234494#cmt363234494

Gamlen had debts to just about every person in the city, and Garret thought he'd figured out all of them. Mother had sorted through the writs of lending for a week, putting them into careful piles of descending amounts and urgency. Debtors ranged from Iron Bob, a dock worker with some rusting iron teeth, to Ser Farthing, a noble from Ferelden who traded in carefully bred roosters. Stuck outside Kirkwall proper, Garret had started to wonder if he couldn't just sell Carver and use the money to get at least his mother inside the walls.

"You are not selling Carver to the highest bidder," his mother had scolded, trying not to smile.

But as Garret marched with Carver down to the Sword Coast, following the iron-clad back of the man who'd introduced himself as Krem, he wondered just how deep things had gotten. He'd found Gamlen cornered in a tavern, talking fast, trying to make up excuses to a knot of hardened men and women clearly used to using swords to end arguments. As the honorable saint of a nephew that he was, and mostly because his mother would never forgive him for letting her brother die like that, Garret had intervened.

He and Carver had also taken down most of them, but Krem had managed to knock Carver out with a lute grabbed from the tavern minstrel and taken him hostage.

Carver was still sore about it. Garret eyed the elven woman carrying his staff and Carver's sword darkly.

"Alright, I suggest you be properly apologetic," said Krem, stopping before a turn in the dirt path. "The Iron Bull's not a bad man, but its bad for business if we get a reputation for letting debts go. It's just business, nothing personal. And one word of advice."

"And what advice is that?" drawled Garret, trying to ignore the pounding in his head and the stiffness in his shoulders from his hands being tied at his back.

"Don't stare at the missing eye and don't call him Tal-vashoth," Krem said, grinning darkly, and Garret found himself shoved by the shorter man and around the corner into a stumble. As he found his feet, he looked up and found himself on the flat sand of a protected cove. Supplies in boxes and barrels were neatly stacked all around, and more ragged men and women were eyeing them. Sitting on a pile of boxes labeled 'arrows' and 'beer', sat the largest Qunari that Garret had ever seen up close. An eyepatch covered the left eye and tattoos ran over his shoulder, and he was shirtless like most Qunari, the fat hiding the promise of utter steel and heavy muscle underneath. 

The Qunari leaned onto one knee, the heel of his heavy leather and steel boot sinking into the sand, and sighed gustily at him.

"Krem, I told you, no more lost puppies or kittens. This doesn't look like--what's his name? Something-Amell?"

"Looks like Gamlen Amell's got family," said Krem. Garret felt a hand on his shoulder shove him to kneel in the dirt, and he resisted for a moment, snarling--then a boot kicked the back of his knee, and down he went. He could hear Carver groaning behind him.

"Family? I thought that guy just had two sick parents," said the Qunari. 

"New blood from the coast, or so he was babbling," said Krem. "Sorry, Boss. They put up quite a fight. Smiles is going to be pissed about treating all these burns. Took down four of our men by himself."

"Huh. Really?" the Qunari tilted his head, a movement exacerbated by the wide set of his horns. Garret supposed they really did look kinda bull-like. "That's impressive for a puny guy like him. And that other guy you've got there."

"Look, I don't know what Uncle Gamlen did or asked you to do, or what he owes," said Garret, fed up with being ignored. "But all I was doing was protecting my family. What did he do?"

"So you do know how to talk," said the Qunari, a grin pulling at his face. "Alright, Krem, what did this Gamlen guy do?"

Krem tugged out a piece of ragged paper from a side pouch and unfurled it, bored tone dragging all life from the words.

"Gamlen Amell promised 1,000 gold to the Chargers in exchange for services rendered, which included removing two crime lords in any way we saw fit. We did our end of the bargain, but Amell disappeared before we could collect," said Krem. "In absence of payment due, we can seize any property we like in exchange."

"Well that's just great, because Gamlen doesn't have any property worth anything anymore," said Garret. "He lives in a hovel outside the main gates of Kirkwall and pisses his time away drinking."

"But he does have you," said the Qunari, eyeing him and Carver.

Garret didn't like the look.

"We're just refugees from the Blight," said Garret, thoughts whirling. "Unfortunately what we thought was a relative that could help us turns out to be a stupid, worthless drunk. It's not our fault he's an idiot."

"So why did you defend him?" asked the Qunari idly. 

"He's family," said Garret, sudden and sharp, and refusing to mention that his mother would kill him otherwise. "I don't abandon family, even if they are a drunk and I have to pay all his debts. He's my responsibility."

The Qunari considered him, then Carver, looking them over and seeming unimpressed. The Chargers were quiet except for the mumbling and shouts from the men and women he and Carver had taken down while being treated for an array of injuries--burns, stab wounds, cracked heads. Garret held up his head, ignoring the dried blood caked in his beard and the bruising in his ribs. When the Qunari met his eye, he stared back, lips in a thin and determined line.

"What do you want me to do with them, Boss?" asked Krem, his tone equally tired and bored.

"How about this," said the Qunari, tilting his head back. Garret tried to suppress the shiver at the looming sight of him. "Our agreement says we can claim any of Gamlen's property, right? Well, looks like we've got two pieces of property right here. If you really want to take responsibility for him, how about you work for me? Could use a couple of dogs-bodies around. Normally you'd end up making way more than just 1,000 gold working for me, but let's call that interest. Work for me a year, and I'll call us square."

Garret stared at him.

Carver groaned again behind him, inarticulate with the pounding in his head. But he seemed to rise, and Garret felt a dull smack at his back.

"You can't agree to this, Garret!" Carver hissed in dismay. "We can't work for qunari!"

"If you say normally I'd make a lot more working for you than that, then throw in getting us into Kirkwall," said Garret, and there was a snort from Krem at his cheek. The Qunari's brows went up. "Then I'll agree to work for you for a year without attempting to run off. And my brother will join me."

"I am not agreeing to anything!" protested Carver.

"Its the best deal we've ever been given," Garret snapped back. "Do you want to be cleaning out chamber pots for the rest of your life?"

"Hah, you've got some cheekiness too. I like it," announced the Qunari. He waved his hand, and Krem knelt down. Garret felt something cold and sharp slide between his aching wrists, and the rope fell away from his hands. He staggered to his feet, frowning, and rubbing at the angry red marks around his wrists.

"Might I have back my staff?" Garret asked, arching an eyebrow at the Qunari.

"Yeah, yeah. You seem the kind of guy to stick to his word," said the qunari, and he gave someone a nod. Garret closed his hands around his father's staff and tried to resist hugging it to his chest. It made him feel better.

"Apostate, huh? Dangerous to run around with one of those these days," said the qunari. 

"Not exactly something I can help," said Garret dryly, and the qunari snorted. Behind him, he could hear Carver grumbling. 

"Maybe you can magic up something to keep all this warm," said the qunari, gesturing around him.

"Unfortunately practical magic isn't my strong point," said Garret, eyeing the damp cove. "Does this mean we have to live here?"

"Nah. Ups your sustainable cost," said the qunari. He heaved to his feet, and if Garret thought he was huge before, he--was still huge. Garret was not used to tilting his head back to look people in the face, and he staggered under the friendly thump of the man's hand to his shoulder. "Names the Iron Bull. Emphasis on the 'the'. Krem, figure out if we've got any extra armor around, they aren't up to Charger Code."

"Aye aye, captain," replied Krem dryly. "Alright, recruits, with me."

Garret caught Carver's eye. Carver, bloody and surly, met it, and for a moment they grimly stared at each other.

"You're a Charger now, recruits," said Krem, stepping in while the Iron Bull thudded over to his injured men. Krem grinned, a little wicked. "That means /new recruit hazing/. Right boys?"

A ragged cheer went up, and Garret sighed.

The things he did for family.


	2. Contracts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After agreeing to join the Chargers, Hawke realizes that he forgot to account for one thing -- his mother.

Predictably, his mother was aghast.

“Gamlen!” She rounded on her brother, who shrank back from her with stiff shoulders and his lip pulling ugly to the side.

“It all works out, Leandra, now your sons will earn their keep and we can get out of this mess,” he said. “It’s not my fault that the mercenaries are acting like mercenaries.”

“They wouldn’t be conscripted into working for some qunari warlord if you had paid back people you owed instead of deciding to kill them!” scolded Garret’s mother. Garret watched with wicked satisfaction as Gamlen kept backing up while his mother advanced on him in a high fury. Gamlen ran out of creaky floor and jumped when his shoulders hit the plaster wall.

“Leandra, we don’t have options,” he hissed. “If you want to get out of these slums, you have to pay the price. You have to face reality. They’re lucky! They could have to work for slum lords!”

“Oh, is that the plan? Sell my sons services to the highest bidder?” demanded Mother, groping blindly for something at her side to brandish while Gamlen remained cowed.

Garret sighed, crossed the room to put a hand on his mother’s shoulder.

“As much as I hate to agree with him, I think it’s good to look on the bright side. The Bull’s Chargers seem to have some sort of reputation, perhaps it can help keep Uncle Gamlen’s creditors at bay. And in the end, we’ll be inside Kirkwall, where it’s safe,” said Garret, keeping his voice amiable and ignoring the way his Uncle inched sideways to escape. 

“You should not have to pay a blood price for it,” said his mother, her fury shifting. She drew back from him, the lines by here eyes pinched and her mouth a thin line. She looked through his face, brows wilting, and it hurt Garret deep in the chest to see her look into him like this. “I worked too hard to make you have to do something like this.”

“It’s fine, Mother,” said Garret, throat choking up with a tense twisting feeling. “And think, this way Carver can work out all those temper problems.”

“Don’t talk about me as if I’m not even here,” said Carver from where he sat on the bed, bent over a tangle of leathers working oil into them. Lieutenant Krem had declared their clothes useless and an embarrassment, and the rest of the Chargers had taken great delight in suggesting what they could wear instead. They’d been packed off with some tired and vaguely mismatched sets of clothes and armor, and Carver had been furiously cleaning his up to a shine.

“I wouldn’t, if you’d actually participate in anything,” snapped Garret, letting go of his mother to look down at his brother, setting his hands on his hips. Some ghost of his father pulled his shoulders up, his back straight, and his voice into a tired fondness.

“Why would I even try, when you’ve decided to be the center of attention?” said Carver, not looking up.

“I’m not trying to be the center of attention, Carver. I’m just trying to let Uncle Gamlen keep all his bits,” said Garret, glancing at the man. Gamlen froze, halfway to casually slipping out the door, as all three Hawkes turned to look at him.

“Language, Garret. And Gamlen, don’t think I’m done with you,” said his mother firmly. 

“It’ll be fine, Mother,” said Carver. “At least we get to do something. I’m tired to walking in circles looking for work.”

“See? It’s a job. Without pay, but a job,” said Garret, and offered his mother a charming smile. “It’ll keep us out of trouble.”

His Mother heaved a long suffering sigh, the sort that only mothers with children who would accidentally set things on fire developed over time. She looked at Carver, serious, his hands stilled and his jaw set into a stubborn line, and then back to Garret, who tried his best to exude confidence.

“It won’t stop me worrying, but at least they are professionals,” his mother said at last. “At least tell me you drew up a proper contract and got it signed.”

At the combined silence of the Hawke siblings, his mother threw up her hands and stalked to the wobbly table that sat by the door.

“Honestly! You’d think I had not raised you able to read and write. Fine, I will write one up for you, and you will march down to this Iron Bull and get it signed and notated properly,” she said, testing the edge of the quill nearby with her thumb with a finicky twitch of her fingers.

“Mother, we don’t need a note from you!” said Carver, all alarm, shoving the leather off his lap to lurch to his feet.

“You’re dealing with professionals, not blackmarket undercity minions,” said their Mother. “With the latter, it’s acceptable to stab people if you feel they’ve broached contract, but this is a mercenary band with a charter. You can get the upper city legislature and the guard involved if they default.”

Garret watched with no small amount of awe as his mother bent over a table and began writing in elegant, looping script. Carver hovered next to her, hands stretched as if he wanted to stop her. He looked at Garret, scowling--it was the Carver method of asking Garret to help him. 

“You’re probably right, Mother, I’m sure that they have an accountant and everything, and will be quite cowed by the head of letters shaking his finger at them,” said Garret.

“Don’t you take that tone with me, Serrah.” His mother gave him a sly look over her shoulder. “You under-estimate the power of reputation and letters. Now neither of you are going back to that Bull person until I’ve written this out in triplicate.”

“And all this time, we had no idea you were noble born,” said Garret.

“I’m not walking up to those guys and giving them a note because my mother wants it,” muttered Carver.

“Don’t worry about your manly reputation, Carver!” Garret swung around his mother and clapped a hand on Carver’s shoulder. “We’ll say I thought of it--no, better, we were advised by a close acquaintance--and had a friend with a twitchy eye write it up for us, a friend of a friend of a Carta underling.”

Carver shrugged his hand off and stomped back to his bed.

“Fine, if it doesn’t matter what I think anyway,” Carver said.

“Don’t be a--” Garret cleared his throat as his mother sent him a look, “--Don’t take it the wrong way, Carver. Mother’s right, we need every advantage in the situation we can get. Being slipshod about lending is what got Uncle Gamlen in trouble in the first place.”

Carver just grunted. Garret sighed, turning and caught Gamlen’s heel the moment before the door slammed shut. Dog flopped down in a corner with a whine, disappointed at the missed chance at harassing him. 

“Garret, I’ll need new ink. I’ve some coins hidden in the floorboard over there, take them to the market,” said his mother absently. Garret shrugged his shoulders and ambled over, resigned; if this was what it took to deal with the situation, he didn’t dare mind.

The next day they were due back on the beach, early, so early that Hawke was trying to recall if he’d dressed properly in the darkness of the predawn room they all shared together. He took his mother’s carefully penned contracts, folded and tied together with twine, and stuck them down inside the front fold of his leather jacket. Carver clung to a sulky silence almost all the way to the Charger’s camp. 

They were nearly there when the sun broke over the edge of the sea, spilling gold into the sky. As they thumped down the switchback pathway from the ragged rock to the beach, Garret wondered if the camp had moved, or if they’d taken a wrong turn. There were no tracks in the sand and no smoke smudging the sky. 

Just as he began to decide that it had all been a fever dream, he jerked back as an arrow sung through the air and embedded itself where his foot had been. 

Garret stuck out a hand as Carver pushed forward at his back; Carver’s chest bumped into his elbow. Against the pale colors of the sky, he could make out a slender silhouette unfolding to full height on top of a sea-worn boulder. The shape of a bow was in it’s hand.

“Play nice, Carver,” Garret told the sihouette, careful to sound slightly bored. “It’s just how the Chargers say good morning.”

“Shame you’re quick,” said the silhouette, crouching; Garret refused to step back as the woman lept to the ground spare feet from him, light-footed as a deer. Now his eyes could adjust, it was easier to make out her details; pale skin, round face, long ears and dark hair swept back from a severe widow’s peak. Her armor was light, furs and cloth and leather, and she looked him over with a flick of her eyes. 

“What’s the shame in that?” Garret asked, playing along. 

“Would’ve been nice to see you bleed,” she said, unsmiling, leaving him uncertain if this was a joke or if she was serious.

He was leaning towards serious.

“Come on,” she said, turning sharply on her heel and heading back down the path. Garret let her get a few yards ahead before following her, eyeing the rocks around him as Carver cursed and muttered at his back. How many other Chargers had he not noticed on the way?

“Your puppies showed up,” said the woman to Krem, who was waiting by a stack of barrels.

“Oh, good. Glad I don’t have to go back into that place and drag them out,” said Krem, giving Garret and Carver a smile with bared teeth. “Could you get back on watch, Skinner?”

She twisted to meet Garret’s eye, unblinking, and grunted something; she stalked past him and Carver with her head held high. Once she’d disappeared up the path Krem sighed.

“Don’t mind Skinner too much. Not fond of us round-ears, but not a bad sort. I wouldn’t uh, stay too close to her if you can help it,” Krem advised, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “You two are with me. We’ve got a mission tomorrow and I don’t want you complaining that you weren’t briefed, and I want to see what you can do before I drag two raw recruits out.”

“Raw recruits? We fought in the King’s Army,” said Carver, all offense.

“Well I don’t see you in any kind of army here,” said Krem, lifting his chin. “I ain’t seen shit from either of you except for complaining. As far as I’m concerned, you’re wet-behind-the-ears and useless. C’mon, don’t just stand there, time to blow some things up.”

“About the deal,” said Garret, stretching his legs to catch up to the Second-in-Command easily as the man turned to walk away. He could feel Carver stiffening behind him and the stare drilling into the back of his head willing him to shut up. “We have an agreement, but I want to make sure we’re all on the same page. I have a working contract for your Boss to sign.”

“Contract?” Krem laughed, short and flat, and gave him an amused look over his shoulder. “What, you got some two-penny scribe off the corner in the refugee district to write you up something on paper?”

“Something like that,” Garret replied easily. Krem’s eyes narrowed a touch, a slight upwards twitch to his mouth. 

“Two scrappy refugees with fancy paper. You’re just full of surprises,” said Krem. “Well, fine, Chief likes to run a tight ship and all that. You can try to tell him to sign something.”

“I would be much obliged,” drawled Garret, and Krem shook his head. The three of them walked together through the chilly early movements of a military force shaking off the night time, but there was a lot more urgent movement than Garret expected. So far all he’d met and seen of the Chargers was a loose force, barely coherent enough to keep order with two sudden recruits. It didn’t fit with the air of industry in the camp this early in the mornin. People of all types were preparing armor and weapons for the day, starting the morning meal, consulting with each other and shouting directions. 

The Iron Bull stood over a dry-docked boat turned on it’s side with it’s innards rotting out. Papers and a map were spread on top, and he had his arms crossed as a slender, small-voiced man dressed in dark leathers pointed at the parchment. The light of morning did not lessen the impressive sight of him. The low sun outlined the massive spread of his horns in gold and tracing light along the swell of his muscles. As he shifted positions, the leather on his arm creaked, and his long shadow that stretched across the ground grew more monstrous.

Garret tried to remember how to breathe. Wow, those were some big hands. 

Krem’s footsteps slowed, and Garret frowned as he found them stopping just far enough away he could barely catch the edges of the Iron Bull’s conversation. He leaned to the side and squinted, tilting his head and trying to figure out what exactly--

The Iron Bull glanced their way, then leaned in close to the Charger in front of him. He waved his hand. The man nodded, gave them a narrow look, and trotted off into the morning darkness.

Krem cleared his throat, putting on some swagger as he approached the beast. 

“Chief, the new recruits showed us the favor of showing up on time,” Krem drawled. He gave them a disparaging, unimpressed look over his shoulder. “Said they got some piece of paper for you.”

“I told you this was a bad idea,” hissed Carver at Garret’s elbow. Garret resisted the urge to jab him with it. “Let’s just forget about it and get into this test or training or whatever.”

“Too late, Carver,” Garret hissed back at him while the Iron Bull crossed his arms and lifted one brow.

“Paper, huh? I thought they were two Fereldens. Heard they don’t even know how to read or write and that they farm mud,” said the Iron Bull, voiced pitched precisely for just the three of them. Carver bristled, going very quiet and stiff at Garret’s back.

Garret cocked his head slightly, an odd feeling creeping up his chest. Something here was a little strange and it felt like an obvious bait. He shrugged off the words and strode forward, reaching inside his leather coat--

Krem and the Iron Bull both tensed slightly, eyes intent on his hand--

\--and whipped out the stack of papers to wave them.

“I know, I know, that’s what they say. But I had the bad luck of growing up shockingly literate,” said Garret. He approached both of them, refusing to show any sign of fear or awe as he handed them to Krem. Krem took it slowly, turning the pack of paper this way and that, before leaned across the ship to hand to the Iron Bull. The Iron Bull’s hand dwarfed the thick packet, but he was delicate in tugging the string’s knot open with two meaty fingers.

“You and the Bull’s Chargers are men of honor and business,” said Garret, folding his hands behind his back to resist the itchy urge to grip his staff. “I thought you’d like things to be neat and simple, so I’ve brought contracts for my and my brother’s service. That way no one has a chance to get confused as to the boundaries of our agreement; this is about debt, after all.”

It was a fight to not throw in a bad joke, but Garret bullied through. Carver was a sulky, angry presence hovering behind him.

The Iron Bull grunted, spreading one of the copies in front of him and bending down to get a close look. It was kinda……

Garret hesitated to use the word adorable to describe a Qunari who wielded a long stick with a hunk of iron welded to the end, but the sheer focus and scholarly air of him reading didn’t match the rugged image.

“Huh. Not bad,” said the Iron Bull, and Garret grinned lopsidedly at the praise because Carver, again, had gotten worked up over nothing. “Pretty standard, this, nice clause at the end about injury and next of kin. Who wrote this?”

“A friend of a friend of a Carta agent,” Garret lied easily. It wasn’t really untrue; his mother was technically the friend of Uncle Gamlen who definitely knew members of the Carta far better than he should. 

The Iron Bull gave him a wry look. “Yeah, sure, a friend of a friend. Well, you tell this friend I like their handwriting. Alright, I’ll sign this; and then you’ll stop being a pain in the ass before I toss you into the ocean?”

“I can’t quite guarantee not being a pain in the ass, especially not for my brother, but I’ll do my best,” Garret said, before he could think it through.

The edge of the Iron Bull’s mouth twitched; Krem busied himself grabbing an ink well and thumping it within reach of the Iron Bull’s hand.

“You give me a good ol’ try then,” said Bull, bending over the contract and signing it with a slender feather pinched in his hand, and Garret wasn’t sure how the quill didn’t break. Delicate, strong, large hands--

Bad thoughts, Garret.

“Your turn, Amell,” said the Iron Bull, resting thumb and forefinger on the sheet and turning it to face him. Garret stepped up and plucked the quill, bending to sign.

“It’s not Amell,” said Garret. “It’s Hawke.”

“Hawke?” said the Iron Bull, brows lifted.

“Yes. Garret and Carver Hawke,” Garret repeated, distracted as he signed the three sheets with the same looping handwriting that his mother had drilled into all her children. He stood aside as Carver took his turn, his handwriting not quite as smooth or slanted. 

“Well, Hawke, I don’t want to have to see you again until the sun’s going down and it’s dinner time,” said the Iron Bull, voice dragging low and disinterested. Garret looked up--the Iron Bull was paying an awful lot of attention to the shape of Carver’s letters, with a canny tilt to his head and mouth.

“We’ll try. I do specialize in blowing things up,” said Garret.

“Now that’s something I do want to hear,” said Krem--the Iron Bull was folding the papers up again, and Krem was turning to walk off. “With me, Hawkes. Maker, there’s two of you--alright, big one is Hawke, the smaller one’s Carver.”

Carver rolled his eyes, taking the papers from the Iron Bull and smacking them into Garret’s chest with an annoyed noise.

“He’s always the Hawke,” Carver said, still full of vitriol. “No reason to change that now.”

“Calm down, Carver. You won’t be wanting to spout off at the mouth when I’m done with you,” Krem said with a grin with lots of white teeth.

“Oh, goody,” said Garret.

\--

By the time the sun kissed the mountains, Garret wondered if he could burn the contract papers and go back to hiding from Templars and picking up weird odd jobs from shady characters standing on street corners. Sweat streaking his face and bunching under his arms, he collapsed to sit on the sand and watch Krem yell at Carver. The sinking sun glinted off their blades as Krem drilled Carver through block, parry, block, attack. Krem was unrelenting despite the weariness in Carver’s every step. Carver had been forced to work with another of the chargers for most of the day, but Krem had declared he wanted to see Carver’s skills personally. 

The elven woman they called “Dalish” leaned on her “bow” next to Garret, grinning slyly at him. 

“Here I thought you fought in a king’s army, Hawke,” she said. “And you can’t even defeat a bowman with that piddly stick of yours.”

Garret bit back a growl to defend his father’s staff, and instead flopped his arms over his knees and eyed her warily.

“Well I have to say, most bowman in the king’s army didn’t somehow, mysteriously, throw lightning arrows,” he said. “You’re the most, dare I say, magey bowman I’ve ever met.”

“I am aghast, sir,” said Dalish, lifting her chin. “This is a fine Dalish bow, of the likes you round-ears couldn’t comprehend. Old elvhen technique.”

Garret grinned. He had to admit, despite the electricity burns on his legs and the bruise on the back of his head, he was enjoying himself. He felt exhausted in that curious, marrow-deep way when his will and the thrum of magic in his blood couldn’t even make a tiny flame appear. Normally that evoked a ghost of panic, but here on the beach surrounded by men and women trained to kill, perhaps he didn’t have to worry.

Actually, that should make him worry more.

“Of course, ma’am. Although I’d love to know exactly how you manage to throw up a shield that makes fire bounce,” said Garret.

“I would have to kill you,” she said, her tone light. Garret wondered for a moment if she meant it.

Garret exhaled heavily, putting his hand on the staff at his side. He brushed his fingers over the heavily polished wood, wondering quietly at their game here.

Chargers worked as a number of flexible task units that could be combined or pulled apart depending on the flow of battle or the task at hand. They had specialists in magic, in explosives, in strategy, and a talented surgeon in the ranks, but they also had meat and gristle career men. They were figuring out where to put them, Garret knew, but he wondered how much of it was about skill and how much it was about temperament.

He’d worked with at least five people that day, ranging from Dalish, ruthless with a fine sense of sarcastic humour, to a surly, humorless gentleman named “Prince” who seemed out to actually kill him. Very different people with very different approaches to battle, but all of them ruthless. There were constant jibes, insults and other comments from the Chargers; but the few times he’d spotted the hulking shape of the Iron Bull, the Charger’s leader had been studying him with an unreadable expression. Garret had no idea what the hell the Qunari was thinking.

 

Garret felt, rather than saw, the twisting of the fade and reality; he lurched to his side, rolling, as lightning bit at the sand where he’d been sitting. He came up with both hands on his father’s staff, whirling to--to--to call a shield, but the world barely flickered and a his blood burned. With a wrench of will wrapped around the last buzzing drips of energy in his body, he willed the crystal at the end of his staff to glow a faint blue instead.

It was a complete bluff, but Dalish might not know that.

Dalish blew at her fingertips, not looking at him but over at Krem’s silhouette approaching them across the sand. Garret risked a glance to the side. At the other end of Krem’s long shadow, Carver was laid out flat on the sand.

“Your technique could use work,” Krem advised, tugging an oil rag out of a bag on his belt and wiping the spray from the ocean off his blade. He eyed Garret’s bent knees, arched back, and thrust staff critically. “You haven’t received a lot of proper training without cheating.”

“Magic is not cheating,” Garret intoned. He straightened up slowly and planted the butt of his staff in the sand to lean on it. “I don’t cheat. Unless I’m tipsy and we’re playing wicked grace, than the only option is to cheat.”

Krem snorted, turning his head to bark at some of the Chargers who’d begun gathering along the tide line to watch Krem beat the snot out of Carver.

“Someone get me a polearm!” Krem demanded, and a body immediately scurried away.

“So I see you are going to kill me after all,” Garret observed, one brow lifted. “And here I thought the Iron Bull was going to let me live.”

“You both really do complain,” Krem said, dry and uncaring. A man came up and put a polearm into Krem’s hands, and Krem hefted it in his hands to test the weight while eyeing it critically. Garret was quietly impressed; he knew Krem had been spending the last hour driving Carver in the ground, and if Carver wasn’t the man with the best technique, he was stubborn. He had stamina, drive, and an insistent need to prove himself.

Krem should have been exhausted.

“Now, Hawke, let’s see if you actually know how to use that blade on the end of your staff,” Krem said, sliding back one foot and snapping the polearm up into position. Behind him, the rocks were crowding with the shadows of Chargers jostling for a view. 

Garret dragged in a breath and warily drew in line with Krem, sand grinding inside his boots. He dropped his shoulders, holding the staff loosely in both hands as he eyed the curve of the polearm’s blade.

“No magic, I assume? Wouldn’t be right to give you an unfair disadvantage,” he called back, and Krem gave him a brutally clever smile.

“So you do catch on,” Krem called back, and then Garret had no time for banter or thinking anymore.

Sand flew into the air as he scrambled for distance when Krem closed with him faster than he expected. It was all Garret could do to flip up the blade end of his staff in time to redirect the wicked blade coming for his shoulder, hoping to force Krem to turn. Metal crashed with metal and ragged yells echoed from the rocks.

Garret had the height; Krem had the reach with his weapon. Even normally it would have been tricky, but Garret was sure his staff was made from stone, not wood and metal, because lifting it made his shoulders burn. It was like trying to wave around a boulder.

Krem beat him back with quick thrusts of the polearm, driving Garret down onto the hard damp sand closer to the waterline. The sound of waves crashing mixed with the rasping of his own breath in his ears as the world shrunk around him. There was only the light catching on quick flicks of the weapon in Krem’s hand, and the jarring clang when Garret deflected it. The impacts thudded through Garret’s arms, jerking the breath out of his lungs.

If Garret could close, if he could bring his weight to bear on the shorter man where Krem couldn’t use the polearm to force distance, if--

Garret threw caution to the wind and charged, clumps of sand flying from his heels in a last ditch attempt to duck inside the threat range of Krem’s weapon. He knocked away the polearm with the dull end of his staff in a spin. Swinging back around with both hands turning his staff, he had a moment to see Krem’s shocked face--his chin pulled in, both eyebrows lifted, a bit of a twist to his mouth--before wood smacked into Garret’s shins and sent Garret crashing to the ground.

Hitting the hard sand by the surf drove all the air out of Garret’s lungs while ragged cheers erupted from the rock line. White water boiled around his face as a wave rolled over him and he sputtered, digging small furrows in the sand as he tried to shove up to his feet before Krem could push the advantage. Something sharp and cold pressed past the high collar of his leather jacket and Garret froze on all fours, not even on his feet. 

He turned his head just enough to see Krem’s face through sweaty locks of hair. The man grinned down at him, whipping the polearm’s blade away from his throat and turning to offer him a hand in exchange.

“Not too bad, recruit,” said Krem. Adraste’s tits, he didn’t even sound winded.

Garret managed to flash white teeth in a clenched line, debating whether or not his pride would survive accepting the gesture, and in the end he took Krem’s hand. He staggered with the force of Krem’s pull, jabbing his staff down to keep from tumbling back to the ground the other direction. He thought he’d caught the ragged edge of his breath when a heavy thump of Krem’s hand against his back drove it all out again. Garret’s lungs burned with a wheeze as Krem walked away. 

“Someone pick up that one from the dirt,” Krem called, pointing at Carver--who had turned over on to his back and propped up on his elbows, sand encrusting half his face. Oh, good, he was alive. Carver still fought for breath and his expression was blank--but his eyes burned with stubbornness. Garret met his gaze and Carver smirked at him.

“Did you like your nap?” Garret called. “I knew you were complaining about missing your beauty sleep.”

“Liked the part where you ate dirt,” Carver yelled back. “What was that again? Something about magic and cheating?”

But the two of them were grinning, despite the grit in Garret’s teeth and the way Carver groaned attempting to get to his feet. Carver waved off the offered hands from a few of the Chargers that had trundled over to help him, but started to tilt sideways as soon as he got to his feet. Garret frowned, concern worming it’s way into his thoughts as he watched a dwarf shore up his brother’s side.

Garret ached. He hurt in places, deep places where mana sloshed around at empty in his blood. He forced his way over the sand, heels sinking as he swung his legs in long strides until he could grip his brother’s shoulder and take a good look at him.

The dying light turned the bruises into smudges and the blood at Carver’s mouth and nose black. Garret shoved a hand into Carver’s hair, searching for blood and bumps. Carver hissed, trying to duck away, but only managed to jostle the dwarf holding him up. 

“Stop wiggling, Carver,” scolded Garret, relieved when he felt nothing but gritty sand. It was just exhaustion and the wind being driven out of Carver’s chest, nothing serious, nothing that would require a bribe to an apostate healer to fix. They didn’t have Bethany to do healing anymore--

Bethany, with her smile and her hands aglow with green healing light--

Garret was crap at healing. If he wasn’t, if he’d been better, if he’d been faster--

“Stop worrying, mom,” Carver said, and Garret’s thoughts broke apart. Garret shoved at his brother’s head and strode off, ignoring the yelp behind him.

“Then stop falling over like a sack of potatoes, at least learn some class,” Garret shot back as he thumped up the line of the shore. The sand under his feet shifted to rock. Each step made his body burn, but he gritted his teeth into a fierce smile as the men and women who had watched them resolved out of the shadows where he could see their faces.

Some looked him up and down, as if seeing him new again; others leaned to their fellows, muttering, but the tone was light. One, a fierce woman with a mass of scars dripping over the side of her face, broke from the crowd and clapped a hand on Garret’s shoulder. He bit back a grunt.

“I think you’ve earned some of the good stuff tonight!” she announced.

A ragged burst of laughter followed the announcement and it seemed to break the tide; Garret wondered if his head was whirling from light-headedness or the number of people suddenly introducing themselves as he was swarmed. He caught a comment about Krem being a hard ass, and another that he’d lasted longer than they expected and had won some Chargers good money in bets. Perhaps this was a rite of passage?

“And think, I didn’t think you liked me,” Garret said, and there was laughter and he had no time to catch his breath before he was swept up the beach to the tents and the wine casks. Carver was dragged over to a man who sighed and forced him to sit--Stitches, Garret thought, recalling in passing the Charger surgeon’s name--but someone had an arm over his shoulders and forced him to keep walking towards the main camp.

The last thing he saw before the darkness obscured his view was the huge shadow of the Iron Bull strolling down the beach to where his brother clutched at his stomach, surly and silent. The Qunari clapped a meaty hand on Carver’s shoulder and leaned over him to say something to the surgeon, and then Garret nearly stumbled and had to look away.


End file.
